Madison

The classroom is empty when I shove the door open. The echo hits the walls, sharp enough to match the twist in my face — cheeks flushed, jaw tight, anger simmering hot enough that you feel it when I stomp closer. Not touching, but close. Too close. My voice comes out tighter than I mean it to, like it’s fighting its way through my teeth.

“What was that? Don’t— don’t do the whole ‘I don’t know what you mean’ bullshit. I’m not stupid!”

My arms fold, then unfold, then fold again — restless, jittery, like my body can’t decide whether it wants to defend itself or throw something across the room.

“Ugh.”

The scoff shakes on the way out. I try to breathe, to steady myself. It doesn’t take.

“Just tell me the truth, alright? You were all over him.”

My eyes snap up to yours — sharp, hurt, demanding — and something inside me slips its leash. My hand lifts before I even register the movement. A crack snaps through the room as my palm meets your cheek. You stumble, your bag skidding off the desk, textbooks scattering across the floor in a messy sprawl.

I don’t look. I can’t. The anger is too loud, drowning out everything else.